


bright stars to light my confinement

by undeadpsycho13



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Crossing Parallels, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Ice Skating, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Parallel Universes, Why Did I Write This?, everyones the same except older, except yuri, he's still the same age, there are a lot of characters i just didn't tag them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeadpsycho13/pseuds/undeadpsycho13
Summary: “What are you playing at, Viktor?  And why do you look so damn old, huh?  And… How is your hair long again?”The boy speaks in English, voice heavily accented and spitting out the words one by one.“Who… What did you do to my—— our son?”It is not Viktor who answers, but Yuuri standing behind him.  His tone is quiet, but borderline aggressive, and completely ignores the stranger’s questions.“Hah?  What do you mean, Katsuki?  Hit your head on something recently?  As far as I know, you guys don't have a son and unless you did it overnight, you're not married either.”“I—— What?  Do I know you?”“Oh my god,” The boy throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, “You really have gotten amnesia.  I'm Yuri.  Yuri Plisetsky.  Does that ring any bells?  You know, his—”He points wildly at Viktor.“—student?”ORYuri is stuck in a parallel universe where he's supposed to be six years old and the son of Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki.Needless to say, he is not pleased.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyyy wassup yo
> 
> i thought i'd post something longer and more substantial because why not im going on a yoi binge may as well post all dem fics
> 
> anyways, title credits to a line from where she sent by gayle forman

Viktor Nikiforov prides himself in having been woken up by the most absurd things.  

Makkachin pissing all over his bedsheets; a very angry Lilia Baranovskaya banging on his door, so hard that the poor wooden thing flew from its hinges, even a stray chicken that somehow managed to get onto his bed in the middle of the night.

He, however, did not expect to be woken up by high-pitched screaming coming from the room that should have contained his six year-old son, and  _ only _ his six year-old son.

Beside him, Yuuri Katsuki, five time Grand Prix Finalist and two time Grand Prix Final Gold-Medalist who also happened to be Viktor’s husband, is also aroused by the noise, and sits up, startled.

“Viktor.  What––”

More screaming.

Before either can register what’s happening, both are already sprinting towards the room of their adopted son, Yuri Nikiforov, only a few meters away from their own master bedroom.  When they get to the door, the screaming has stopped, replaced by loudly spoken Russian profanities that are definitely,  _ definitely _ not spoken by Yuri.  Or… so they think.

Forcing the unlocked door open unnecessarily hard, Viktor barges into the room, followed closely by Yuuri, only to be met with the sight of a surly looking teenage boy with golden hair that hung about his head like an angel’s halo and beautiful blue green cat eyes, achingly familiar.  The angelic illusion, however, was shattered by a dark scowl and black clothes with leopard print, as well as the foul language that was spewing from his mouth in a string of garbled sentences.  Upon seeing Viktor enter the room, the curses stop.  For a moment, it's just stunned silence, Viktor staring at the boy and Yuuri staring at the boy and the boy staring at both.  And then, to break the fragile silence, the blond teen exclaims, loudly (it seems as though nothing he does is ever quiet, just like their little Yuri),

“What are you playing at, Viktor?  And why do you look so damn old, huh?  And… How is your hair long again?”

The boy speaks in English, voice heavily accented and spitting out the words one by one.

“Who… What did you do to my—— our son?”

It is not Viktor who answers, but Yuuri standing behind him.  His tone is quiet, but borderline aggressive, and completely ignores the stranger’s questions.

“Hah?  What do you mean, Katsuki?  Hit your head on something recently?  As far as I know, you guys don't have a son and unless you did it overnight, you're not married either.”

“I—— What?  Do I know you?”

“Oh my god,” The boy throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, “You really have gotten amnesia.  I'm Yuri.  Yuri Plisetsky.  Does that ring any bells?  You know, his—”

He points wildly at Viktor.

“—student?”

In fact, that name  _ does _ ring a bell.  Yuri Plisetsky—— that was the name of their son before his adoption.  Before they changed his name to Yuri Nikiforov.  Now that he looks closely in the dim lighting (no one bothered to turn on the lights, and they all wonder briefly who’s bright idea  _ that _ was), both Yuuri and Viktor can see the resemblance between the small Yuri and this one, how his soft tresses curl at the end and how his eyes flow along the spectrum of blue and green, occasionally even giving off a gold glint.  They were definitely the same person, except this one was much, much older and apparently knew both Yuuri and Viktor.  But, if this Yuri was telling the truth, he had either suddenly grown overnight and gotten his memory replaced with someone else's, or it was some even more absurd explanation.  And, if Yuri’s desperate pleading look underneath his tough facade was anything to go by, he wasn’t lying.

“Well… How about we go downstairs and figure this all out?”

Of course it’s Yuuri who says this, a mask of calm on his face while his insides are practically screaming with worry for his actual son.  Viktor, on the other hand, looks slightly spooked and very much in shock.  With a curt nod, the boy–––– Yuri–––– brushes past them both, into the hallway, down the stairs, navigating the place as though he knows it like the back of his hand.

Yuuri and Viktor silently follow.

When they reach the living room, Yuri automatically plops down on a small couch by the fire, and, subconsciously, Yuuri remembers that that’s  _ his _ Yuri’s spot.  But of course,  _ his _ Yuri is nowhere to be seen.

There’s a tense silence, and then the conversation starts.

“So… since none of us seem to really know each other, do you want to introduce yourself, Yuri?  And maybe… tell us how you got here?”

Yuri just stares into the now-lit fireplace, flames casting flickering shadows over his solemn face.  He looks so old, so much older than he should be, as if forced to grow up faster than his body could keep up.  Yuuri thinks to himself that he doesn’t want his son to grow up to look like that.  Then he realises he doesn’t even know where his son  _ is _ , and a new wave of worry engulfs him.  

And then, finally, Yuri speaks, vulnerability shining through his voice that reminds his audience that really, he’s only just a boy,

“I’m Yuri Plisetsky.  I think I said that already.”

And then, all the words come out in a rush, as though some barrier that keeps his word guarded had suddenly been run down by a flood of water,

“I’m from Moscow and I’m a professional skater.  I grew up with my grandpa and started skating when I was four, then moved my home rink to St. Petersburg to train under Yakov when I was ten.  You know, Yakov Feltsman.  He trained Viktor too, at least in my memory that’s how it goes.  Don’t know what’s wrong with you guys now.  Or maybe, as you say, I’m the one who’s messed up somehow.  Anyways, I won the Grand Prix Final Gold Medal last year.  Beat Katsuki to it by a tiny bit.  I was going to start training under Viktor after I turned sixteen in March.  But oh, I don’t know, maybe March has already passed in this messed up world.”

He laughs a little hysterically.

‘’I was just skating, you know, late night practices and all that jazz.  Also escaping the disgusting level of PDA you two expose me to, constantly.”

Somehow, amidst all this, he still manages to level a filthy glare at the couple.

“So basically, I went to the rink.  In St. Petersburg.  That’s where I live.  Where you live too.  In fact, I think you live in the same house as you do in my world or whatever, because the floorplan layout is exactly the same.  Except my room in your place isn’t supposed to be a goddamned  _ nursery _ .  So I went out to get some fresh air, went for a quick skate, then crashed at Beka’s place ’cause I didn’t want to walk home.  Woke up and I found myself…  _ here _ .”

The poor teen looks like he’s about to cry, and neither Yuuri nor Viktor would blame him if he did.  There’s a pause, before Yuri demands,

“So, what now? Aren’t you going to tell me what’s happening here?”

Yuuri is snapped out of his daze, and looks at Viktor for support.  Viktor sighs, says,

“Look, so here’s our story.  I’m Viktor Nikiforov, he’s Yuuri Katsuki, we’re both professional skaters and we’re both married.  To each other.  We were married a years after the 2016 Grand Prix Final, when I coached him, and then two year after that, we adopted you–––– or Yuri Plisetsky, I don’t know–––– and now… ”

He trails off, unsure how to end.  Yuri’s face is getting paler and paler as he speaks.

“Wait, how old is Yuri–––– the other one–––– again?”

“Six.”

“Hah?  So it’s… the year… 2025?!”  There are short, breathless pauses in between words, during which Yuri is no doubt calculating the overwhelming dates thrown at his face.  In fact, Yuri’s voice ends a whole octave higher than when he started, as though he can’t quite comprehend what’s going on.  And, seeing the situation as it is, he probably can’t.

“Yes.  Yes, it is.”

Yuri falls back into his chair in shock, hands flying up to cover his face.

“Oh my God.  Oh my God, it’s 2025.”

He covers his face in disbelief and murmurs something in Russian.  Yuuri doesn’t understand what, his Russian isn’t good enough, but apparently Viktor does.  Judging by the look on his face, it’s not something pleasant.

“Yuri, don’t swear like that.”

Yuri looks at Viktor in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?  I’m stuck in some twisted parallel world of some sort of dream, in a place where I know everyone but they’ve all seem to forgotten about me, or perhaps I’m born a decade and a half later than I’m supposed to be with no way to get back, and you’re not letting me swear?  What kind of ––––”

“Calm down, calm down.”

“And now you want me to  _ CALM DOWN _ ?!”

Yuuri sighs.

“Look, I know that you’re scared and you want to find your way home as soon as possible, and I definitely want my son back, but can we just… let this go until the morning?  It’s four in the morning, and staying up worrying will do us no good.”

Ha.  As if he wasn’t worried sick.

For a moment, Yuri looks like he’s going to protest, but then the fight leaves him, they can see it in his eyes, and he relents with a,

“Fine.  Okay.  Whatever.  I’m not scared.”

He walks back up the stairs, leaving silence and apprehension in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> know that i am not happy with this chapter. 
> 
> just saying.
> 
> next chapter will be better, i stg.
> 
> why the hell is my writing becoming so crappy D:
> 
> also, btw, i was going to spit posting this into two chapters, but then i was like god this is crappy i need to compensate somehow so i combined two chapter into one. hopefully thats a good enough compensation
> 
> also, i need more friends. talk to me on tumblr, plz, im lonely af and honestly its kinda pathetic

Yuri wakes up the next morning, head pounding.

For a second, he can’t remember where he is, and then the previous night’s events come rushing back.  Looking around, he sees a pile of toys shoved haphazardly in a corner, and then looks down at the makeshift bed be made for himself using only spare blankets and pillows that Viktor had managed to find in a dusty cupboard.  So he really is in a… parallel universe, or whatever this is.

Sitting up, Yuri rubs his eyes a little.  It’s seven in the morning, according to his the small clock that hangs on the wall, a cute, colorful model that would have been perfect for a child but less than perfect for an angsty teenager, and Yuri blames waking up so late on the fact that he barely got any sleep last night.  Two hours, plus whatever he managed to salvage at Beka’s place before he was teleported to this hellhole.  And then he remembers, _Beka_.

He wonders what happened to Otabek, waking up to a six year-old in his bed where it should have been his teenage boyfriend.  Or maybe, back home, everything is normal, and some freakish clone has replaced Yuri and everything is fine and dandy.

Maybe they forgot about him.

He hates to admit it, but he _is_ scared, and he _is_ falling apart at the seams.  He wants to cry, or rather he doesn’t want to cry, but cries anyways.  He can’t help it, because he’s panicking, and his breath is coming out in short gasps, and he can hear his heart-beat pounding in his ears and his vision tunneling into a bottomless black hole that sucks up everything and spits it into a void of despair…

“ _Breathe, Yuratchka, breathe._ ”

He hears in his mind, but he can’t, he can’t, and suddenly tears are overflowing and spilling down his face in rivulets, sobs coming out in choked off noises.  He knows Otabek isn’t really there, but it’s comforting to just imagine him.  Or perhaps, it makes the loneliness worse, makes the hopelessness even more overwhelming.  But he clings onto the thought anyways.

When he finally manages to dry his tears, he slips into the washroom to wash his face.  It’s one thing crying to yourself first thing in the morning, and another to leave evidence for any random strangers to find that you cried to yourself first thing in the morning.  Looking in the mirror, the bathroom more or less the same as the one back home, Yuri can almost pretend that he _is_ back home, that everything is normal and that all the strange events that were occurring were just a dream.

Almost.  He could fool his eyes with the reflection, but he couldn't fool his brain from the memories.

Sighing, Yuri turns off the tap and walks back out, except this time instead of going back to bed, he walks down stairs, towards the kitchen, making a quick detour at the outlet near the door, where is phone is charging.  Spider web cracks adorn the screen, and in hindsight, he really shouldn’t have thrown it last night, full force at the wall, but he had been angry, and caught up in the spur of the moment.  When he arrives at the doorway to what he supposes could be called a kitchen (alternative name: lavish room that happens to contain cooking utensils but also a bunch of other completely unnecessary things, including large-ass sofa and a television set, completely separate from the one in the living room and another one in the master bedroom), he is unsurprised to see Viktor already there, humming to himself tunelessly while flipping pancakes

When Viktor sees Yuri walk in, he merely dips his head in greeting, thankfully not mentioning how Yuri’s eyes are still slightly red-rimmed (he kind of hates his pale skin sometimes, for these reasons, even if it gave him the angelic appearance that brought him home a gold during his GPF SP performance), and continues on with his cooking.  Yuri doesn't fault him for his inattentive behaviour; it's not as though he would have treated Viktor any differently if their roles had been switched.

Yawning, Yuri seats himself down on one of the state-of-the-art wooden chairs that line the massive dining table.  There’s a dull, but not uncomfortable silence that lingers in between the cracks in the spaces, but Yuri doesn’t dwell on them.  It’s only after a few minutes that Viktor shatters the delicate tranquility,

“Would you like to… come to the rink with Yuuri and I, after breakfast?”

Yuri doesn’t hesitate to accept the offer; he’s not the type of person to gush about how much an inconvenience it would be to bring an extra person, because, following his logic, Viktor offered, so why not?

When Yuuri enters the room, the three of them, or rather the two that are still standing, sit down at the too-large table, and quickly eat breakfast, again in silence.  If the Viktor seated were _his_ Viktor and the Yuuri seated _his_ Yuuri, Yuri would not hesitate to start complaining about one thing or another, but seeing as they’re not, he keeps quiet.

It’s not a pleasant meal.

True to his word, Viktor brings Yuri along to the rink.  

It’s only by the time they’ve entered the rink, skates on, and everyone turns to stare at Yuri that they realise how much explaining they’re going to have to do.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s silence, Viktor and Yuuri finally realising what a mistake bringing Yuri was, but it’s too late to turn back now, because Mila’s asking,

“Who’s this guy?”

Yuri, who seems to have forgotten that no one knows him in this world, starts screaming in his usual manner.

“Hey Mila, you’ve forgotten me too?!  You old hag, what are you staring at me for like that?”

Mila looks a little taken aback; clearly, in this world, no one has ever spoken to her like this.  She’s shaken out of her stupor by indignance and fury, however, and retorts,

“What gives you the right to talk to me like that, huh, kid?  Who the hell are you anyways?”

“Yuri Plisetsky, idiot!”

This is met by stunned silence.  Not just Mila, but everyone else on the ice has gone quiet too.  Yakov is staring at him, open-mouthed, Georgi is gaping a little, even Lilia Baranovskaya has dropped her dispassionate mask to reveal surprise.

“ _What_?!”

Then Mila spins around to confront Viktor and Yuuri,

“Where’s Yuri?  What’s happening?”

Ignoring Yuri’s indignant cry of, _I’m right here, idiot!_ , Yuuri hastens to blurt out an explanation.  By the time they’ve finished explaining everything, starting from the scream they heard in the middle of the night, everyone is looking upon Yuri in something akin to wonder.

Yuri himself is looking uncomfortable, to put it lightly, under all the scrutiny.

And then he’s bombarded with questions.

“Am I in your parallel universe too?”

“How many awards have you won?”

“You beat Katsuki?  I don’t believe it!”

“How old are you again?”

“We traded a cute baby Yuri for _you_?”

Yuri just glares a little.  Even though he’s used to the press crowding around him, it doesn’t mean he has to like having a bunch of people pushing into his personal space.  He doesn’t even want to _think_ of his fanclub.

It’s Yakov who brings order to them all.

“Enough!   _I SAID ENOUGH_!”

And even the most defiant skaters wilt under his harsh gaze and comply.

“Yuri Plisetsky.  Since it seems like you’re not going back anytime soon, we may as well see how good you are.  If you pass my standards, I’ll train you.  The rest of you, get off the ice, I want to see how good this boy is.”

Yuri also happens to catch a “ _Better than Katsuki my ass!_ ” added under his breath, but chooses to ignore it, instead taking up the challenge mentally, seething with slow-burning rage at being undermined.  He was going to ask for warm-up time, but seeing as that would just hurt his pride, and that he had already stretched (a little) before they left the house, he doesn’t say anything.

(He ignores the fact that if he messes up something, lands any jump just slightly off, he’s probably going to hurt himself very, very badly).  

He skates to the speakers, going through the phone plugged into the system searching up a very specific song.  Yakov doesn’t stop him.  Handing the phone to the coach, he skates to the middle of the rink, by now cleared for his use, gets into his starting position.  He motions for Yakov to start the music.

He can do this.

He has to be able to do this.

The programme Yuri skates to is the one he did for his short programme in the Grand Prix Final, and it’s not accidental or a coincidence.

 _On Love: Agape_.

Really, Yuri could have chosen any other song to perform.  But this held a place in his heart like none other did, because, for once, he had actually worked to find his agape for this piece and fought for it with blood and sweat and tears.  This was the song that got him a world record.  This was the song that won him the Grand Prix Final.  This song connects him personally to _his_ world.

The skaters spectating find this a strange piece to perform to.  After all, it had been choreographed by Viktor, who was known for his… creative choreography.  The high-pitched voice that floods the rink is a bit disconcerting.  And yet all of them are too captivated by Yuri’s skating to give it anymore thought.  In fact, each and every one of them spectating are too captivated to take their eyes off him.

There’s a reason he broke records with this piece.

When Yuri skates, he dances.  The years he spent on ballet shows in his movements, fluid like water yet precise and strong and flawless, won through hours and hours of pain and practice.  Every spin is free-flowing, every jump with a hand in the air, unfaltering, the light airy tune directly lofty movements, and yet it comes out sadder than it should.   Wistful.  There’s a melancholy air that hangs above the rink like a cloud, suffocating.  A skater projects their thoughts into their performance, and Yuri is doing just that.

The standard black practice gear in contrast to the silvery white costume he wears for this performance normally doesn’t help to lighten the mood, either.

As he throws himself into a flying sit-spin, and then stretches back into a Biellmann Spiral, Yuri can feel the tears come again.  He’s furious, he’s frustrated, he’s scared, but what can he do?  He’s practiced this so much that the movements are written in his muscles, and he could probably perform this in his sleep with the same precision and aura.  No one can see his actual feelings.   _No one wants to see my actual feelings_ , he thinks a little resentfully.

By the time he’s done, hands held high up in the air and head arched back, the tears are flowing freely down his face.  He hastily lowers his arms to wipe away the crystalline droplets that adorn his face.

The audience is silent.

Deafeningly silent.

Yuri, heedless to their speechlessness, does his best to clean up the mess that is his face (he has never, not once in his life cried twice over the course of an hour, and he doesn’t plan to make a habit out of it), then glides over to where the rest of the people are standing.

He kind of hates that they’re so surprised he did well.

“You’re… My God, you look just like Vitya when he was younger!”

His mood dampens further.

“WHY AM I ALWAYS COMPARED TO VIKTOR GODDAMMIT?!”

He glares a little more, at Viktor, as though it’s all his fault for the comparison (it is, though), and turns around and stomps off.

“Wait.”

It’s Lilia Baranovskaya who calls out to him, much to everyone’s surprise.  She’s been silent the whole time.

“Da?”

Even Yuri’s not reckless enough to go around messing with Lilia.

“Have you… By any chance… Trained under me?”

Of all the questions, Yuri did not expect to be asked this one.

“Yes I–––– For one year.  I was training for my first Senior GPF, needed more discipline.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Lilia says, coldly, and Yuri supposes he should take offense in her words except he’s learned, over the time he spent with her (lived with her), that nothing Lilia says is really supposed to be offensive.  She is merely… correcting everyone, for their own benefit.  It is part of her nature, as a former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi.

And then––––

“Come with me to the studio.  Show me something.  Any routine you’ve practiced.”

When Yuri doesn’t move, she narrows her eyes––––

“ _Now_.”

––––And Yuri complies.

(Not that he has any other choice, really.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will post the next chapter. hopefully sometime soon.
> 
> plz criticize me all you want, i dont even care, just talk to me (yes, im that pathetic, i told you so)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyyyy sorry i forgot about this fic T_T
> 
> i hope this update counts for something, i havent written much more cause i got distracted by another piece i was working on and now that fic has 13k words while this one is stills stuck as 7k QAQ
> 
> i am ashamed of myself, and will strive to do better (i sound stuck up but i honestly dont care)
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, my life is too boring, i need friends.

Yuri trails behind his mentor, and is met by the sight of a very familiar studio.

He starts with a few basic exercises, because if this Lilia is anything like the one back home, she would never let him start with a routine without stretching.  Sure enough, she hums approvingly at the sight.

At some point, Lilia tells him to start his actual routine.  Not that he really has any clue what to do.  His profession is ice skating, not ballet, for God’s sake.  Anyhow, he’s been doing ballet for quite a while now, and while he doesn’t spend every waking moment practicing, he can still perform adequately.

Adequately, but not enough to please Lilia.

“You’re flexibility is astoundingly terrible.”

She comments nonchalantly, as he does oversplits standing, and he’s thrown back to a year ago (or is it ten, compliant to this world?), when Lilia first meets him.  She prods and pokes, adjusts his stance before allowing him to continue.

And that’s pretty much how his next two hours go.

Position, correction, repetition.  Rinse, lather, repeat.

It’s quite dull, but he’s gotten used to it, both the sting of boredom and the agony of the stretches.

It’s after the practice that things start to get a bit hectic.  Over Yuri’s rooming.

Strictly speaking, even though Yuri doesn’t  _ technically _ live with Yuuri and Viktor, he spends more time in his room there than in the one in Lilia’s apartment.  As well as this, in the world the room in Lilia’s apartment isn’t technically even  _ his _ .  However, he would rather not spend time with the couple, seeing as he was pretty much the crappy replacement of their child, and even though they tolerate him, he can’t bear to see the lost, worried look in their eyes when they look at Yuri and no doubt see their son.

It’s like the haunted look he used to see in his mother’s eyes when she looked at him and saw what could have become of her figure skating career.

In the end, he still ends up in Viktor’s place, seeing as what would have been his room at Lilia’s was now a room stacked with boxes of costumes for various upcoming skating and ballet competitions, as well as old mementos and old trophies she or her students won over the years.  He doesn’t really want to sleep among the dusty crap in that room; even a mound of stuffies meant for a toddler version of him are better (and they’re tiger plushies, too).

The next few days (weeks?) are quite monotonous, consisting of nothing but training, eating, sleeping, and the occasional walk around St. Petersburg.  He’s lost track of the time, the edges of each day blurring into the next like frames on a strip of film.  Nothing interesting happens, every day is the same as the last, like a broken record playing the same piece over and over, a never ending loop of tedium.

That is, until the annual group meeting meaning to bring together all the top skaters of the world in a amiable environment (read, not knife-shoes-at-each-other's-throats competitive); there, things become as little more… interesting.  

For one, he gets to go through the fun experience of explaining his unbelievable tale to an audience consisting of more than twenty unbelievably dense skaters who are too curious for their own sake.

For another, he meets someone quite… unexpected, so to speak.  

The meeting takes place in St. Petersburg, seeing as at least a quarter of their unofficial squad is a member of the Russian skating team; hell, even the Japanese lives in Russia.  However, it seems as though the entirety of the Russian skating team is incompetent in planning parties, because in the end it’s Phichit who plans the whole thing, from 7,582 kilometers away with and broken Russian the help of Google Translate (and no help from the four native speakers, as expected).  Everyone he knows, plus a few extras that are probably only present in this world.  Either that, or he just never noticed them, which is, now that he thinks about it and realises he can’t remember half the names of the figure skaters in the men’s division alone, honestly quite plausible.

He is forcefully dragged there by Viktor and Yuuri (some things never change), who have, over his lengthened stay, gotten to know him well enough that they’ve promoted themselves to the force-Yuri-to-attend-social-events stage of friendship.  By the time they get there, about half the people invited are already crowded around the table, including Mila and Georgi, as well as Phichit, Seung-gil, Guang-Hong, Leo, and some Emil Nicotine (or was it Nickelback?) guy he’s sure he’s heard of somewhere.  That bouncy annoying Japanese kid who worships the ground Yuuri has walked on and who’s older than Yuri (now and before) called Minami something is also present, even though, as far as he knows, Minami hasn’t even qualified for Juniors yet, and this gathering is supposed to be for the top skaters in the world.  Though technically, he wouldn’t count either, because apparently none of his achievements count for anything here.

All of them are seated at a table that, despite supposingly having to fit another ten people, already looks crowded.  However, they squish a little and somehow manage to fit.  It’s going to be hell fitting everyone else though.

When they all manage to get comfortable, or as comfortable as one could get pressed up to two other people with barely enough space to move your arms, Yuri once again goes through the fun process of explaining his presence.  By the end, he has a table full of full-grown adults gaping at him like fish out of water.

One of the skaters, Yuri notices, the Chinese one, looks like he’s about to say something, something other than disbelief present on his face that Yuri can’t quite place, but Leo, sitting next to him, gives him a meaningful look and a gentle nudge, and he thankfully shuts up.

Yuri’s in the middle of passing a fork in between the space of his plate to his mouth when someone walks through the door of the private box they rented.

He drops the fork.

It clatters onto his plate, sharp screeching noises emitted when the heavy metal utensil makes contact with the porcelain.  All at once, everyone’s heads turn to look at him.  What they see is his eyes, wide as saucers, staring at the man who just walked in, a look of shock clearly displayed on his features.

“ _ Beka?! _ ”

For a moment, there is deafening silence.  And then the man–––– Otabek–––– looks around at the other in confusion.

“Who’s this?”

Again, silence reigns.

And then Yuri has stood up, chair falling backwards onto the pristine marble floor with a resounding clang.  Yuri wonders why his vision is blurring, why his cheeks are wet, why he’s choking out weird noises, and then realises that he’s crying.  Over the few weeks he’s been here, Yuri’s always subconsciously clung to the thread of hope that he would find some way to get back home.  He’s managed to shove his doubts and fears back down, all the ugly feelings that are now set loose.  Because if even Otabek doesn’t recognise him any more, who will?  Vaguely, he feels the hand gripping his wrist, registers Viktor trying to pull him back down, but he struggles away from his grasp and mutters something incoherent in Russian that’s supposed to be something along the lines of,  _ I’m going to go take a walk, carry on without me _ .  Ignoring Yuuri’s,  _ Yuri, wait _ , he stumbles out the door, out onto the streets, and then he’s running and running, aimlessly, until he can’t run anymore.

Can’t hide from the problems he so desperately runs from.

He ends up curled up on a park bench, stray flakes of snow blowing around him as the cold bites at his face.  

Even his tears are icy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pleh
> 
> next chapter not yet finished, but by not yet finished i mean like a sentence away from completion. the chapter after that tho... well, we'll cross the that hurdle when we reach it
> 
> comments, kudos, bookmarks and whatever make me happy :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS
> 
> im rlly rlly rlly rlly rlly rlly X1000000 sry for the delay, there is no way to properly express my guilt
> 
> but anyways, heres a new chapter, and its also where the yuri plisetsky & guanghong ji tag comes into play. i rlly love gh, im writing another fic abt him rn too <3

Back at the restaurant, Otabek Altin his highly confused.  Never in his twenty seven years of life has a random stranger called him Beka, and then burst into tears and run out of a restaurant when Otabek asks him who he was (and he said it politely, too).

Viktor and Yuuri, as well as everyone else seated at the table, however, are looking at him as though he’s somehow sinned a sin worthy of comparison to murder, and that confuses him too.

“Ummm… What’s going on?”

Yuuri shakes his head a little sadly; he’s always been level-headed when it comes to situations that don’t involve himself, and recognises the fact that Otabek probably is innocent and doesn’t have a clue on what’s going on.

“Come here, I’ll explain it to you.”

When he’s done, Otabek kind of feels like an asshole too.

“Someone should go find him.  Make sure he’s okay.”

Otabek says, because even though he doesn’t know the kid that took off, he doesn’t want him to die on the streets.  He still has a heart, contrary to the tabloids that make him seem like a cold monster.

“I’ll go.”

It’s Viktor, who, over the course of the last week had grown quite fond of the kid that crashed at his place, despite his habit of swearing every other sentence.  He gets up, nods at the others silently, and turns, but then––––

“Wait!”

It’s Ji Guang-Hong, the petite Asian kid, one of the youngest present, who, despite being indoors, was wrapped up in layers of clothing with a scarf covering half his face.  Only his eyes remained seen, and in those eyes Viktor could something akin to… desperation?

“Let me go.  Please.  He… He might not want to see you, right now.  He… ummm… He did say that he knew you well in the other world, didn’t he?  And I… I don’t think he would want to see someone that… that reminds him of home now… ummm… right?”

He sounds nervous, every sentence formed like a question, tripping over his words in a haste to get them out, accent becoming more pronounced with frustration.

Viktor looks a little dubious, but seats himself back down anyways, nodding in consent.

Guang-Hong himself looks a little surprised that his argument actually worked, staring wide-eyed at Viktor, as if he had expected the man to fight back.  Then realising that everyone still had their eyes on him, he mumbled something unintelligible and practically flew out the door, Leo looking at him in unmasked concern.  He was out the door for about ten seconds, before his face reappeared at the doorway, looking embarrassed.

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Viktor, obviously doubting his decision but not wanting to put the younger skater off, replied,

“Either the rink, or the one of the parks.  If he’s not at any of them, come back, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Guang-Hong nods, and then he’s off, into the city with only the light of the stars to guide him.

(And the crappy streetlamps that did nothing to illuminate the streets.)

(And Viktor’s horrible advice.)

* * *

 

Yuri loses track of time, face-up, snowflakes blown to and fro above his face, staring and everything and nothing all at once.  He doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and if someone were to see him now, they’d probably think he was dead.

_ Honestly _ , he thinks to himself, a tinge of self-loathing palpable,  _ Maybe I would be better off dead.  No one would miss me, anyways.  I could be free from this emotional torture and maybe go back as a ghost to haunt the old man and Katsudon.  Maybe, maybe if I were dead I could go back to my world and see Beka one more time _ .   _ What if my body appears in the other world?  God, what would everyone else think? _

For an indefinite amount of time, he just stares, on and on, an occasional thought drifting through his mind, hazy and incorporeal as mist.  He is aroused, however, by footsteps that echo duly across the clearing, and small, breathless pants, and though whoever was there had run a long, long way to get here.

He probably had.

“Go away Viktor, I don’t want to see you.”

Why was Viktor always so  _ annoying _ , goddammit.

“It’s–––– It’s not Viktor.”

Comes a gasping voice, words broken a little by breathes.  Yuri sits up.  He honestly didn’t think anyone he knew–––– or at least recognised–––– would come willingly, just said what he did to convince whoever was coming his way to back the hell off.  Looking at the figure, bundled up in at least three layers of jacket, he grew even more confused; what was Guang-Hong Ji doing here?  Yuri doubted he would come just for him; they barely knew each other and while the skater seemed nice, there was no way in hell he would come out in this freezing weather just to haul him back.  No way.

“How much did they pay you to get you to come and find me?”

His voice comes out in a monotone, less harsh and more dead than he meant for it to be, sounding as though he was more zombie than human.

“Why would they pay me?”

The guy seems genuinely confused.

“It’s an–––– Oh my God, just forget it.  Why are you here?”

Guang-Hong is now staring at him like he’s grown two heads.

“To bring you back, of course.”

Yuri huffs.

“Yeah, and what if I don’t wanna go back?  You gonna make me?”

He expects angry yelling or tears or some sort of  _ reaction _ , but Guang-Hong surprises him by saying, simply, earnestly,

“No.”

They sit in silence, a vigil over nothing.

And then Guang-Hong starts to shed his many layers of jackets.  Yuri’s head jerks to meet his gaze.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He asks snappishly, “You’re going to catch a cold like that.”

Guang-Hong disregards his concern, says, “How old do you think I am?”

Yuri stares at him in disbelief, thinks for a moment, doing hasty calculations in his head based on what he remembered about the skater in his  _ own _ universe (not much, to be honest).

“Twenty… six?”

“Wrong.  Please don’t freak out.”

The last jacket finally comes undone, the scarf unwinded, and Yuri is met with the sight of a boy, short stature and innocent features marking him no older than eighteen, in a t-shirt and jeans, hugging himself as the icy wind billows mercilessly around him.

“What.  The.   _ Hell _ ?”

Guang-Hong looks down at his feet, shuffling them uncomfortably and digging the toes of his sneakers into the ground as he shifts nervously under the scrutiny.

“I’m not exactly from this part of the universe either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... a bit short, but i promise i'll make it up to y'all on the next one. 
> 
> i was kinda hesitant when dividing the chapters up, but eventually decided to cut this one down a little for the _DRAMA_ we all live for.
> 
> chapter five will be coming v soon, but i do have a load of summer hw to do, and unfortunately my mother has deemed that more so important than my 'other hobbies', so that comes first 
> 
> (im also going into gr 9, so schoolwork is starting to matter more) 
> 
> (im also in an ib school, and ib is freakin hardcore)

**Author's Note:**

> i have four chapters written so far but im not sure if i should post them.
> 
> help??
> 
> (plz comment, or kudos, or whatever, i dont even know)


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